


B Is For Bela

by Mello_McQueen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-26
Updated: 2009-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mello_McQueen/pseuds/Mello_McQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I'll see you in Hell."</i> Dean was always a straight A student, but one time. . .one time he got a B. Second person POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	B Is For Bela

**Author's Note:**

> written at: 7:00 a.m. Sunday, July 26, 2009.

You were always a straight A student. Diligent, clever, and you studied hard before every test. Hell, you were studying before you were even a proper student. Up there on the rack, watching everything your teacher did to them, to _you_ , with rapt attention.

Somehow, it always fascinated you, held your attention, even when he was carving you up and you were screaming until your lungs felt like they would burst-even when you didn’t have any lungs to scream with.

You watched, mesmerized by every single thing he did. And you learned. So when he came to you that time, and made you the same offer you’d heard, again, and again, and again, you told him you accepted, and you knew, you _knew_ , you’d be a good student.

Told him you would be, and you were.

Eager to please, you listened to everything he said, took it in and committed it to memory, then applied it to your works, carving them up just the way he’d shown you. Slow, and deep, and fucking _endlessly_ meticulous.

You made them into art, and nothing pleased you so much as to hear him say that you’d done well, or look at you like you were something worthwhile. Something beautiful. A work of art, yourself, you were his masterpiece, and you wanted to be, and he was proud of you, but one time he wasn’t, because one time you did poorly.

One time you got a B.

It happened because one day she was there. There on your rack, and she looked familiar, like you’d seen her before, but you didn’t know where, and as you took out your tools, you remembered the demon with the blonde hair and how she had looked at you once in some parking lot somewhere-that you were sure wasn’t here, but didn’t know where else it could be-and said that Hell was forgetting.

And you remembered that you had forgotten, and that you knew her, this woman on your rack, and you remembered that you didn’t like her, but knew you didn’t want to hurt her.

She didn’t want you to hurt her either, but then, they never did. This time it hurt you, though, seeing her there, broken and bloody, looking down at you with a pleading desperate look, and begging you: _Don’t, don’t. Dean, please, Dean. It’s me. It’s Bela. . ._

You didn’t need her to tell you that, because you knew who she was and you knew you would have to hurt her, because he was there, your teacher, hovering over you, watching, waiting, wanting to see you react.. Wanting to see you suffer.

Oh, and how you suffered too, with every cut you made against her skin, every bruise and bite, every mark that left her screaming, left you feeling sick until you thought you would throw up, but all you did was cry.

And you never, _never_ , wanted him to see you do that, so by the time your hands were shaking, almost too much to keep going, you didn’t just feel sorry for her, but you hated her too. A real hatred this time, and it made you crazy, until you threw technique and pleasure out the window, and forgot everything you’d learned about the art of torture.

Disregarding all your lessons, you slammed into her with your knife, cutting her up much too fast and much too deep, in a way that was brutal, and bloody, and grotesque.

You cut her open, in an act of savagery, lacking all style, all grace as you dug inside of her, tearing out her insides with your hands. You cut her up until there was nothing left of her that you could see.

And when it was over you fell down onto your knees, covered in her blood and parts, and you screamed until you couldn’t scream anymore. You cried too, until you couldn’t see, but you could hear.

You could hear him, your teacher, laughing behind you, because he had been there. Had watched the whole thing, with a mixture of amusement and distaste. He looked at you, just the same, and said that you could do better. Made sure you would do better by punishing you.

And he punished you for such a long time, making sure you saw it, making sure you _felt_ it, making sure you would never forget that you were better than that. Than your B.

Your B for Bela.  



End file.
